


New

by Spadesjade



Series: Tom and Michelle [1]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, First Dates, Fluff and Angst, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:17:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3256394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spadesjade/pseuds/Spadesjade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years ago, Tom made it clear he wasn't interested. Now when she sees him at a party, she finds out things might not have been what she thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Party

**Author's Note:**

> This is my submission for Friday Fluff Fanfare by the wonderful Hiddlestories! It will be two parts.

I caught sight of him not fifteen minutes after he arrived. Truthfully, I knew the exact moment he'd shown up, but it was hard for Tom not to make an entrance. Everyone loved him, everyone hugged him, he made the rounds and it would take at least an hour for him to greet all the people in the room who wanted a slice of his attention.

I was not one of them.

I had retreated to the far back of the house. Why his presence bugged me was a bit of a mystery, but I knew from the first second Monica had told me he was coming that I didn't want to see him. 

It had been so long. Fifteen years, easily, since that awful day. Now that he was famous I had had to readjust to being aware of his existence again but that didn't seem to make it any easier. Most of the time, months on end, actually, I had never thought about him, but then he'd burst onto my movie screen as Loki and after that it felt like he was everywhere. He was a mistake, but not a regret. I made damn sure I wouldn't regret wondering "what if?" for the rest of my life. He'd made sure I didn't have a reason.

Mistake. Was that really the right word? A mistake was something you did wrong, and it had been his mistake, not mine. I had done nothing wrong. Not a single thing. He, however...

"Shit, ______, you can't hide all night," Katherine's voice came at me, startling me from where I'd sunk into the old couch. I gave a jerk, nearly spilling the drink I was still nursing.

"Can't I?" I chuckled. 

She frowned at me. "Where is this coming from? I mean, come on, it's water under the bridge, you've said it yourself so many times."

"Flesh and blood are a bit harder to dismiss than pictures on the internet," I replied dryly.

Katherine shook her head. "Don't let him wreck your new year. There are so many people vying for his attention I bet he won't even come up and say hello. I think you're safe. Come on," she held out a hand to pull me up, and I let her, although I didn't quite believe her. 

What she said made sense. Tom had seemed to get the message the last time we'd been in each other's presence, when he'd gone to hug me and I had turned and given him my hip between us, crossed my arms, and stood still as a stick. But then again, he had bloomed like a cliché in the last half dozen years and I doubted that he even remembered why I wanted nothing to do with him.

"Tom is unfailingly polite," I reminded her. "I may have to deal with a brief hello."

"And that's it," Katherine said. "I'll play wingman if it happens, distract him so you can slip away."

I laughed. "Thank you. Although I know you think I'm being melodramatic."

Katherine shrugged. "Well, rejection is a tough pill to swallow. Nobody needs reminders of it, especially not on New Years Eve."

Rejection. Truth was, it didn't hurt anymore. Hadn't hurt for a very, very long time. But it was, to a certain extent, a matter of pride. A knowledge of having wasted your time and not wanting to waste a second more of it.

I did not want to rehash this, but my mouth had taken control. "It wasn't that he rejected me. I could have handled that! I mean, you don't feel that way about someone, fine, you don't! But the way he just...dismissed our friendship. I mean, fuck him, you know?"

Katherine gave me a sympathetic nod but I knew she was only half listening as we were approaching the murmuring crowd. She squeezed my hand but someone else got her attention and I was alone, again.

The bitter thought that I really should have just stayed home wandered through my brain. 

So what did I do? Of course I went for the food.

Monica knew how to put out a spread, so there was every kind of finger food one could want at her parties. I grabbed up a plate and attempted not to overpile it, but really, who cared?

Fifteen years was a long time to hold a grudge, I tried to reason with myself. But it was my own fault, in a way. There was a reason why you didn't declare yourself to someone unless you knew for sure that they liked you back. Especially if that person suddenly became famous and you had to put up with his face like a ghost.

It was a summer company job between high school and college. Tom was there, a transfer across the seas before his college years, wanting to spend some time in American drama before going serious with his Double Classics. The two of us had sort of been thrown together, me with more of a head for organization and him with enormous people skills. He was warm, welcoming, friendly -- and painfully cute, with his blond curls and his blue eyes and smile dimples. 

He seemed to enjoy my company, and in my opinion, he made the first move. He made the effort to get to know me before I chose to work more closely with him -- and I knew it was because I wanted to be around him. Our companionship was easy, and I only found myself getting more self conscious when I realized how strong my feelings were getting. 

So stupid me decided to go open my mouth.

I couldn't read him. He seemed to like me but I couldn't figure out how much. He seemed to like everyone and that is what made me hold back. And then just when I would think I had imagined it, something else would happen.

We'd be in my car, and sing stupid songs together. Nobody ever did that with me. 

He would invite me to join him somewhere after "work" was done -- me, not the others, but me. Not the cute girls, not the other guys with whom he shared an easy friendship. And I attempted to return it, by calling him occasionally, casual and usually with a reason, and let the conversation slide into more personal areas. But he never called me. Even though I invited him to. 

Yes, No. Up, Down. I couldn't take it anymore. We were finishing with a major project next week and within a month he'd be gone and if we had something, I didn't want to waste time. 

So I sat him down outside the theater one afternoon, Monica knowing full well what I was doing and prepared to do damage control because I knew I was taking a big ass risk -- and what right did I have to take it? What guy who looked like him would want a fat drama nerd like me? 

He had seemed unsure of this conversation from moment one. There was an uneasy smile on his face as we faced each other on that bench. This man-child did not like confrontation. He was the diplomat, the people-pleaser. He could have thought that I was going to do something to that effect, complain about him, hit him head on with a problem. 

"Tom, we're friends, right?"

"We're coordinator friends," he corrected me, and I heard that false cheerfulness in his voice.

What the fuck?

I should have seen it, but no, I'd already started and I was going to finish.

"So, for a while I've been wondering. I just can't help but wonder if there's something..."

I always flinched, remembering how I'd froze. The memory was fuzzy on my last words.

"...else? I mean, should I be thinking that? Should I be expecting it?"

He looked at me with that unfailing smile -- but it was not one of his genuine ones. I knew a fake smile when shown one. 

"No," he said, "don't worry about any of that." He shook his head, his expression kind. I pulled back, finally getting the message. I honestly hadn't expected anything else. It was a bit of a relief, though, getting it over with. 

"So nothing more than friends."

"Yes. No, nothing more." He waved his hands horizontally for emphasis.

"Okay then," I said, starting to stand up. "Glad to have that cleared up."

He reached for me, alarm starting to fill his features. "But...thank you! I mean..." he was flustered now, unable to process, apparently.

"I didn't do it for you," I said, very plainly. "I did it for me."

Monica came back, took me out that night. I vented. I felt stupid, but hey, that was the risk you took. I honestly didn't know how men did it, putting themselves out there to women. No wonder they didn't anymore. 

So that awkward stupidity served to drive me through the next few meetings -- which Tom missed. He'd been getting offers from other theaters, he wasn't exclusive to us. I honestly didn't expect to see much of him and I was relieved. I mean, what guy wants to come back and have to deal with a woman he rejected? And not very smoothly, either.

A few weeks later, he did come back. I put him firmly in my peripheral vision and charged ahead. I didn't much give a crap about anything, anymore. I had only done this stupid job to be close to him, and as soon as my task was finished, I was done. 

But now Tom seemed more determined to get my attention than ever. I was constantly catching him watching me from either across the room or from the small crowd that always seemed to gather around him. I refused to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him, or let him pity me -- he'd made his bed, he could lie in it. I refused to give him any reassurance that I was "okay." I dismissed his attention, determined not to wallow, not to pine. My emotions, which were usually stubborn about things like that, seemed to go along with me, and I felt a sense of closure that kept me from wondering anything. At least, too much.

He tried to talk to me, and I kept it brief and clipped. First it was anger that prompted it, but then it was just lack of interest. I was not interested in being reminded of a failure. I was not interested in being reminded of my humiliation, although the only one who had made me feel humiliated was myself. 

Karaoke. A small chunk of us wound up going to a restaurant close by that had a huge karaoke night, letting off tension before one of our openings. Monica sat between us, and I swear Tom kept leaning forward on his elbows so he could stare at me across Monica’s lap. 

Monica noticed it. Teasingly, she said, “Hey, bee-yatch.”

Tom didn’t hear it. She said it again. Finally noticing this, I chuckled and said, “Hey, bee-yatch!”

Instantly Tom’s face scrunched into hurt. “Hey!” he said, offended.

Both Monica and I started laughing. “She just called you that twice and you didn’t even hear her!” I pointed out, my amusement at his discomfort overriding any social decency I may have had. 

Tom just looked between the two of us and went back to his club soda. We kept the conversation light, I sang the only song in my Karaoke wheelhouse that I was comfortable with that night, Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots Are Made For Walking,” and when I got back to the table I accepted their round of high fives.

Tom said to me, “You’re really good…even when you’re stomping someone’s heart out.”

I chose to ignore it. Stupid man had gotten what he wanted and now he was giving me crap? Of course Tom could never be down for long so he went and did his own thing, always The Cure. 

After that night, we all sort of parted ways. Once the show was done I did not volunteer for the next commitment, allowing someone else to have my place. I showed up to help but it became sparser. On their very last show, I came just to see what they were doing – they were my friends, after all.

I knew Tom was going back to the UK next week. The summer was over, this was the last show we were doing. I went backstage when it was over to chat with everyone, hug everyone goodbye. When the crowd thinned, Tom came up to me.

“Are you free for a coffee or something?” he asked. 

Truthfully, I was pretty much over it. But he was also still very handsome, and that fucking accent had always destroyed me, so I said yes, and we went and talked for a good while.

This time, though, I was different. Before I had hung on his words, knowing that men preferred to talk, to be listened to. They didn’t like it when women talked so much, so I had held back. I had held back everything, trying to impress him. Now, I had nothing to lose. So all the little moments I would have kept my mouth shut, I said what I was thinking. I had nobody to impress, so I let myself enjoy myself. 

And he, for his part, did not bring up anything uncomfortable. He didn’t even mention that awful afternoon. He kept it casual, neutral, but fun and light. But the more you get into a conversation the less you hold back and he talked about his fear of letting himself really want to act, because he knew how awful the business really was and how hard it was to make anything of yourself in it, and how his dad wouldn’t approve, and he was afraid to invest too much of himself in it, to give himself permission to love it.

I hated myself by the end of that night, and worse I hated him. All that hard work – undone. I was more smitten with him than ever.

I took him back to the place he was staying, and in a moment of extreme bravery, I pecked his cheek. He immediately grabbed my shoulder when I tried to back away quickly. 

“Hey, that’s not fair now!” and the twinkle in his eyes made me want to slap him. So I sighed, and let him kiss my cheek in return, and he smiled in a way that is forever burned into my head, and that was it.

I never heard a word from him after that. It wasn’t like he didn’t have my number, couldn’t have written or even emailed me. All that sweetness and then nothing? It was almost worse than his previous rejection. Katherine, upon hearing all of this, made a poignant observation about men that I would never, ever forget.

“They all go fishing and hang their little hooks in the water. The second they get a tug, they’re immediately like, what, who me? I’m not fishing!”

Of course, she also said that it sounded to her like if Tom had stayed, something might have happened between us. But I immediately dismissed that thought outright. He hadn’t wanted me that afternoon, what was going to change? 

My head insisted on playing “coordinator friends” in his voice, the way he said it, on a loop every time he would come to mind. Six months later, after dead silence, he showed up with Monica at a party for a small “reunion” we were having, and attempted to hug me like everything was cool.

Tom was always a huge hugger. And I knew it was coming. Those arms flew out, that smile grew wide, and I immediately turned to the side so my hip would jut between us, and I folded my arms across my chest. I gave him a completely fake smile that he knew was fake, and his response was to slink off like the dog he was. He didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night and I was fine with that.

I hadn’t seen him in the flesh in fifteen years.

And the fucker had the nerve to show up tonight at my New Year party and make me relive this shit all over again.

My plate empty, I went to go refill it. I could turn on the social butterfly part of me and go involve myself in a conversation, but I didn’t feel like it. I knew that somewhere in this house was a television with the New Years Eve shows on, and there would be a small gaggle of people watching it and laughing at the antics those crazy New Yorkers pulled in Times Square. I could easily go make something out of that.

As I was making my way toward the television room, the sight of Monica conversing with someone caught my eye, and I hadn’t really had much of a chance to speak to her, as she was so busy, but it seemed that the conversation ended and Monica was in a momentary limbo. She turned, saw me, and we smiled at each other. Her smile turned to a frown, seeing my plate – it had been years since I’d stuffed my face with my emotions like that. The result had been a much healthier figure, if not as slim and graceful as my friends. 

She was just about to reach me, not five feet from me, when suddenly Tom stepped into view.

Fuck fuck fuck!

The bastard was ten times as gloriously beautiful as he had been a decade and a half ago. While missing most of his curls, they still lay to a certain extent on the top of his head, and the shorter haircut was very flattering to his high cheek bones. He had filled out, and age had added lines to his face that made him more handsome than ever. 

“Monica!” he cried, and she immediately turned on her heel and embraced him, like a good hostess.

I stood, gawking in horror, almost too petrified to look around and find a way to slink back. There wasn’t anybody I could just turn to and –

Oh, right there – Katherine, true to her word, was coming to the rescue, having freed herself from whoever had monopolized her before. She reached out to me, seeing Tom there, and smiled at me.

“Come on, you’re not going to believe who’s here—“

Then my name. In That Voice. My toes involuntarily curled, and I looked over my shoulder to see Tom had raised his head from leaning down to talk to Monica and was looking at me.

I could not read that expression. I was not going to bother.

I gave him a tight little smile and wave and let Katherine drag me off. 

Monica, bless her, didn’t let Tom chase after me, but instead asked him some question sure to set him off talking. 

Close. Too close. 

After throwing myself into a conversation with the partial strangers Katherine attempted to introduce me to, I got bored again – I’d managed to kill an hour or so with them, but midnight was still two hours away and I didn’t feel right leaving before then.

I found the television room and settled in, and instead of my plate of snacks I wound up drinking too much cider. I felt it when I tried to rise, feeling a bit dizzy, and knowing that I had to drive my own ass home that night, I knew sobering up had to start quickly. So I went into the kitchen, which was blessedly quiet, and went for the ice cold water bottles I knew Monica kept in her crisper.

And then Tom was in the room. Blocking the exit. As I stood up, gulping a bottle, I heard him say my name again and the effort not to choke was enormous.

Keeping as cool of a head as I could, I capped the bottle and put it down, wiping the inevitable excess from the corners of my mouth. “Hello, Tom,” I said, praying to God I sounded neutral. 

“How have you been?” he asked, stepping further into the room. I could get out now, but not without looking like I was running away. 

“Fine,” I said with a smile that wasn’t entirely forced. The alcohol was helping. 

Tom gave a little chuckle and looked down at his shoes. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and if I hadn't been so thrown by him suddenly in front of me I would have thought he was a bit nervous. 

"You look very lovely," he said, finally raising his eyes to mine. I gave a little one-shoulder shrug. The red cotton dress with the little white polka-dots and the long row of pearl buttons from collar to hem wasn't the fanciest thing I could have worn, but I valued comfort over style. The fact that I was wearing a dress at all was a victory. And I looked like a pauper compared to his designer suit, complete with waist coat and shimmering silvery tie. It was dark and fit him as if it was painted on him.

The words not as lovely as you slipped to the edge of my tongue and I bit them back. "Thank you," I said, feeling dismissive of polite compliments. 

He let out his breath. "Listen, um..." and his hand went to his mouth, his fingers pressing against his nostrils in a gesture of hesitation. "I don't suppose...I mean, I was wondering if I could...speak to you for a few moments. Privately. If you wouldn't mind, that is."

I frowned. My heartbeat accelerated and then the organ itself dropped into my stomach. The longer I stood staring at him the more I realized how different he was. He was like an entirely different person, and I didn't know him. Sure, things were familiar, but...

"I can't imagine about what. I'm actually quite surprised to see you here," I said, stalling. "I figured you'd have some big Hollywood party to attend, or at least be...I dunno. Not here, slumming it with us."

He scowled. "Slumming? I thought it would be a nice opportunity see some old friends...I'm not so different than I was when you all knew me. A bit thicker around the middle, maybe..."

I quirked my lips. "You look like life is treating you well. I must admit I'm curious to see you play Hank, you always were a great mimic."

He brightened a bit, his cheeks tinting the slightest shade of pink -- or I was imagining it. Probably that. "Thank you." Then he sobered, and looked around. "I meant what I said before, about speaking to you privately. I don't suppose--"

I let out a breath. The last thing I wanted was drama, and yet the thought that he would single me out made me unbearably curious. "What is it that you need? I mean, it's been fifteen years, I haven't heard a peep from you, although I have been seeing your face on my computer screen a lot more since The Avengers, but..." I shook my head. "It's a party. Can you make it quick?" 

He stared at me for a moment that felt a lot longer than it probably was, and his lips pursed. He looked almost angry. And then he straightened his shoulders. "I know, it's a party, I don't mean to upset you, and I know it's been a long time. Would you please humor me, though? For five minutes? For old times' sake? If you don't want to talk to me any more after this, then that's fine, but..." He drew another breath, this one much heavier. "When I saw you here this evening...I just...a lot of things came back and I feel I owe you -- "

"You don't owe me anything," I said automatically. 

Tom shook his head, then abruptly turned and went to the kitchen door. For a brief, terrifying moment I thought I had offended him and he was going to storm out, but instead he shut the wide golden-wood door and even flicked the lock. 

"I just don't want anyone walking in, this is going to be hard enough as it is," he muttered, returning to stand in front of me. He put down the drink I hadn't even noticed he was holding and wound his fingers together in front of him as if in prayer. 

"Please hear me out before you say thing," he started, his face very serious. I felt blood rushing in my ears but was able to swallow down the butterflies that threatened to tear their way out of my throat. I gave him a nod, and he began.

"That summer we all worked together, and I realize that it was a very, very," he closed his eyes briefly as if weary, "very long time ago, and you and I are hardly the same people now that we were then. And I would be an arrogant ass to think that maybe you even remember this, but...one afternoon, you tried to tell me something, and I think I completely misunderstood you."

His hands came apart. The man could not talk without his hands. If I wanted to shut him up I would tie his hands together. They spread out before him, fingers splayed.

"We were on that bench in front of the theater and you asked me something," he frowned, his eyes going distant as if trying to look back into the past, "something about us being friends, and wondering something about there being...more?"

I panicked. Unholy hell, he remembered. 

"At the time, I thought...I don't know what I thought, at that time it felt like you were asking me if I had feelings for you...more than just friends."

I felt my cheeks start to burn as if someone had lit them with a match. I even flinched back. To have him throw it so pointedly at me like this. "I, uh..."

"No, please, let me finish. The thing is," and he bent a little, to meet me at eye level, and God help me if his eyes weren't exactly the same brilliant blue orbs that had made me catch my breath the first time I realized how attracted I was to him, "I think I misunderstood you. I thought you were confronting me, I thought you thought I had a thing for you and you were...you were trying to let me down gently."

I blinked. This time I did jerk back my chin, blinking again, rapidly. "What?"

He spread his hands again. "Yes! And I said that you shouldn't worry about it...I was...I was horribly embarrassed and I think I was a bit rude to you because you didn't talk to me much afterwards --"

"Wait," I said, and he stopped. "You thought I was letting YOU down gently?"

He nodded, running one hand through his perfect gelled curls. "And you were so mad, and I couldn't figure it out. I didn't know why you would be mad at me for that, and I swear I couldn't figure it out, and then I thought that maybe, just maybe, and this is probably completely out of line, but that you were trying to tell me that you liked me and were wondering if there was something more between us." He looked at me, his eyebrows raised, those damn eyes so unsure, so pleading and vulnerable. "Was...was that it?"

I drew my lips into my mouth, teeth digging hard into the bottom one, and had utterly no idea how to reply. 

"I mean, at first I thought it was impossible, but then...you just sort of...froze me out and I couldn't figure out why. I thought you'd be happy we were just friends, I didn't think you'd want to get involved with a bloke who was going to go back overseas again after a summer...what, fling? You weren't that kind of person, at least I didn't think so. And I thought I had to be totally off the mark because then after the last performance we went out and had such a nice time and I thought we were okay. And when I came back, you were mad again. I wanted to chuck it off to you just being a girl -- or a woman at that point-- but I knew you were angry and I didn't know what to do."

He ran a hand over his eyes and turned away. Admittedly, I was staring at him like a dead fish at this point, it was a conscious effort to raise my jaw and swallow. 

"I know, this is all so stupid, I mean, it's fifteen years past, and you have a life and I have a life, and who cares about something that happened some stupid summer when we were eighteen? But when I came here tonight I was hoping to see you and then...it was like no time had passed at all." He turned and looked at me, and if that wasn't a rather anguished look he was giving me, I had no people-reading skills at all. "And you just walked off again with barely a hello. So I just wanted to... I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to clear the air." He came back to stand in his original position in front of me, hands back in his pockets, face considerably less friendly than it had been before. "Will you let us do that?"

It was definitely my turn to say something. And he had just vomited out a rather personal confession, and if I couldn't at least respond in kind, then I became the villain of this piece.

"That day, on that bench," I said very slowly, measuring my words, listening to them as they came out of my mouth, "I did sit you down to ask you if you had feelings for me."

His face softened a bit, probably with relief.

"However, I was not trying to let you down. I had...feelings..." Shit it hurt to say it so much but I pushed on, even as every muscle below my chest decided to cramp in dismay, "for you. And I was taking a risk to see if you...returned them."

He stared at me. Possibly with the same shock I had experienced not three minutes ago.

"But you didn't. You told me not to worry." I even imitated the gesture he'd used on me. "You said nothing more than friends." I bit back the addition, not even that, Mr. Coordinator Friend, saving it for later when it wouldn't sound bitter.

"But..." he scowled, struggling with the information I'd given him, "you were expressing your...crush...on me?"

I nodded. It was all I could do.

"And you thought I was rejecting you," he said. "That's why, that night at Karaoke, that song, These Boots Are Made For Walking. That's why you sang it."

"I was venting," I admitted, my entirely body stock still except for my mouth and eyes. "Rather cruelly, but...well. I was eighteen."

He grew rather still. "I wondered. You were feisty but not cruel, and I rather felt..."

"I know, you told me," I said. "You said I sounded great, even when I was stomping on someone's heart."

"You remember."

"I remember all of it, Tom." I blinked, the beginnings of tears gathering under my eyelids. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"No, don't..." he shut his eyes and shook his head. "I did reject you," he admitted, "because I didn't...I mean I didn't mean it like that." He stopped, picked up his drink, took a big swallow, and resumed. "I was trying to tell you not to worry about me. Not to worry about my feelings. Because it wouldn't have been right, and even then, I was so focused on trying to figure out if I was going to actually give being an actor an honest go, dating someone just didn't occur to me. I thought it was just a little crush and it would go away." He sighed, scrubbing his hands up against his forehead. "This feels so ridiculous, and I know it's wrong of me to bring up all these memories." He stepped closer to me. "I mean, it was so long ago."

"I know. I mean, this does bring it back a bit." I gave him a weak smile, my eyes still wet. "But you were right. We both knew it would come to nothing. And it's so many years past."

"I didn't mean to upset you," he said with a gesture toward me, particularly toward my eyes.

"No, on the contrary," I sighed. "I always felt...well, no, water under the bridge."

"No, tell me," he insisted softly. 

I smirked at him. "Come on, how much of an ego stroke do you need?" I had somehow gone into defensive mode, using humor. 

He chuckled, a bit bitterly. "None of this has stroked my ego," he said ruefully. He looked up at me, something wistful on his face. 

I felt there was so much more to say. Now that I knew his side, I wanted to clear up other things, but I didn't want to drag it out. And he was right, we were different people then.

"I never heard from you again," I said, not quite able to stop myself. "So I just dismissed all of this. I admit I wasn't thrilled you were coming tonight--"

"Oh, I can totally understand," he said, meeting my eyes as he toyed with his glass, "now that I know why."

I gave him a smile. "Different people," I said. "I'm sorry. I made a lot of assumptions I shouldn't have. Especially about why you didn't keep in touch, but now I realize why you didn't. I gave you a lot of mixed signals."

"I did the same," he confessed, coming even closer. One hand reached out, and I was utterly terrified that he was going to actually touch me -- and then his hand landed very lightly on my forearm. "When I saw you tonight...memories weren't the only things that came back." 

Every single fingertip of his that touched my skin felt like a brand of fire. So help me, if he was coming onto me and he didn't mean it...I was going to punch him in his fine English nose. 

"Can I ask you to be a bit clearer?" I squeaked, managing what I hoped was a flirty smile. 

The smile I was returned was vibrant. "I would like to get to know you again, as you are," he said. "And, if you have no serious objection...I would like another chance to do things right."

I shuffled. Hell, this was something few rejected girls ever got in their lifetimes. Who was I to snub it? But still.... "Tom, you're famous now. I'm sure your time is more precious now than it ever was before."

He shook his head. "I don't care." His hand slid down against my skin and his fingers ran over the back of my hand before slipping into my palm. "I think it's worth the risk."

Risk. I could not help myself. I felt like an utter sap, but my cheeks threatened to split with the strength of my smile. 

"Okay."

He winked at me. "Can I ask you to be a bit clearer there, love?"

I giggled, then said, a bit more sober, "So I guess you want to be a bit more than coordinator friends this time, huh?"

He looked puzzled.

"When I...declared myself to you, for lack of a better word, and I asked you if we were friends, you said we were coordinator friends," I reminded him, gently. "It, ah...was kind of a bit of salt in the wound."

"My God, I said that?" He seemed flummoxed. "I don't remember...I guess I did babble a bit. I was just..." he shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"Admittedly, I could have forgiven all the rest of it," I said, squeezing his hand, which still gracefully held mine, "but that bit stuck around."

He nodded. "When I tried to hug you..."

I cringed. "I'm so sorry. That was just...mean."

"Please stop apologizing," he sighed, and then gave me a bit of a twisted smile. "Now I know why people say that to me. Anything else?" he asked, with a raised eyebrow. I'd seen him do that in pictures. It was ten times as devastating in real life.

"Nope, that was it," I replied, feeling foolish. The blush crept up my cheeks again, and his smile widened.

"You are particularly pretty when you blush," he said. "I admit I probably teased you on purpose just to get you to do it."

I was going to melt into the floor. "Stop it," I squeaked. 

His chuckle made the urge to hit him return. "Shall we return to the party? I will probably have to talk to a lot more people before the night is over...but after...if you're not doing anything."

"Cup of coffee?"

"Sounds great." 

\---------- 

His hand did not leave mine. 

People underestimate the intimacy of holding hands. We do so much with our hands. They are the way we interact with the world. As important as eyes or ears, they bring us into contact with everything we need or want.

His palm was warm and smooth against mine, his fingers light and delicate. Occasionally they tightened, and he would give me a smile and I would flush appropriately.

This could not be happening. This was some kind of dream. Yeah, stupid thoughts, but I did actually blink a few times to wake myself up, expecting that coming-up-from-water-feeling that would happen just before the world around you broke apart and you found yourself in your bed. 

Fifteen minutes before midnight, Monica managed to get me away. Tom let me go, although he seemed rather reluctant. "I'll be here!" he called as Monica dragged me off where Katherine was waiting in the kitchen.

"What is going on?" Katherine demanded, although she looked more elated than confused.

I shrugged. "Fuck if I know."

"You have to do better than that," Monica deadpanned.

"I don't know! He...he said that he liked me. That he liked me even then. That he thought I was trying to let him down, who knows how it came out like that, and..."

"Classic miscommunication," Monica sighed.

Katherine gave me a slap on the arm. "All this fucking time!"

"You think I don't know that?" I snapped back, but we were still smiling at each other. "I am hallucinating, aren't I? That's not really Tom out there holding my hand."

Monica just sighed and shook her head at me, and Katherine muttered, "I told you if you lost twenty pounds you wouldn't be able to keep the guys off you."

I scowled at her. It was more like fifty, and there hadn't been a bunch of "guys," but I didn't reply. It was too good and I didn't want to spoil it.

"Well, shit, it's almost midnight!" Katherine went on. "Get back out here and get your kiss!"

"Kiss?" Monica and I said at the same time.

"Couples always kiss at midnight on New Years Eve!" she pointed out.

"We're not a couple!" I cried.

"They just got together, Katherine, geeze, dial it back a bit," Monica said.

"Oh, seriously?" Katherine looked between us. "It is a PERFECT opportunity. He's going to kiss you, girl, I know he is." She slapped my arm again, then turned me around and shoved me out of the kitchen. "Go!"

Behind me I heard the two of them arguing, but all I could see in front of me was a sea of faces...

And none of them were Tom's.

They were piling into the television room. I could hear the chirping of laughter and the occasional shouts of excitement as they readied for the ball to drop. The room wasn't that big and it was going to overflow. I stepped toward the crowd, looking around, wondering how far Tom had gotten shoved into the flow.

Tom was not going to kiss me.

I did not want Tom to kiss me.

Did I?

It was hard to think. The thought made me light headed. Sure, the adorable cherub he'd been at eighteen had stolen my heart, but this new man devastated me. He was not going to kiss me. It was going to be a sweet exchange over coffee after the ball dropped and then he would disappear again, and I'd never hear from him, but this time I'd know it was because he was a famous movie star and he had obligations and a public image to maintain. 

Then I felt a touch on the back of my arm, and I unfroze from the spot I was stuck in, at the tail end of the crowd in the television room. I turned.

"Hey," Tom said, smiling shyly at me.

I was so red...I had to look like a cherry tomato. I looked down at my hands, which seemed very busy fussing with the stupid buttons of my dress.

"Hey," I returned. His shining black paten leather shoes stopped only a few inches away from my low, scuffed red pumps. 

I felt fingers under my chin and lifted my face, simply because I couldn't quite bear to have him touch me. 

"Would I be too forward," he asked, leaning down so he could be heard over the growing din. They were counting now, starting at ten.

"To ask if I," he continued, his own face starting to glow pink, as I started to lose feeling in my body, everything below the chin.

"Could kiss you at midnight?" he practically whispered.

"I...um..." I didn't know what to say. Yes seemed too desperate. No seemed too mean.

"I mean," they were at five now, "I understand if you say no, I won't be offended, but it's tradition--"

"Two--one!" came the shouts.

I managed the word as a breath. "Yes."

He leaned closer, and his lips brushed mine. As a kiss, it was very chaste. Very hesitant. We didn't know each other, not really. I felt the slightest bit of pressure just before he pulled back with a hardly-audible smack. His fingers still were under my chin. 

He looked at me, those eyes the only thing I could see. I didn't realize how I was smiling until he smiled back at me.

"Want to get out of here?" he asked. 

"Sure," I replied.


	2. Soda Fountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Michelle go to the soda fountain for their first date, hot on the heels of finding out how they misunderstood each other so many years ago.

"Do you want to meet somewhere?" I asked him as we stepped out onto the step, having bid Monica goodnight. 

Tom ran a hand through his hair. It had always been his signature nervous gesture, even when that hair had been a mass of thick blond curls that I was surprised he could get even his nimble fingers through. "Actually...would you mind driving? I'm sorry to ask but as I've only just gotten in town and I don't have a car of my own yet, I had a driver bring me--"

"Oh, yes, forgot, big movie star," I teased.

He shuffled his feet, looked embarrassed.

"Chill out, Hollywood. I can drive. If you don't mind being stuffed into my Sonanta, and it's a bit...unclean."

He grasped my hand. "I don't mind," he said. "As long as the seat pushes back."

It did push back, barely enough to accommodate his height.

"Starbucks are going to be closed," I said as I started up the engine. "Maybe a Denny's? Unless you had something in mind--"

He shook his head. "Denny's would be fine. Actually, I'm rather hungry, didn't get to eat much, talking to so many people."

"Well, if you're hungry we can do better than Denny's," I said.

"What are you thinking?"

"There's a soda fountain that's pretty much twenty four seven. Make fantastic milkshakes and burgers."

He smiled at me. It made my heart do that infuriating patter. "So can we call this our first date?"

Date. My face was cherry tomato again. "Sure, take the pressure off," I half-grumbled as I shifted gears.

Tom flipped on the radio. "Got anything good?"

I elbowed the seat rest between us, hitting the latch and opening it, exposing my iPod. I picked it up, holding it front of me so I could see and drive. 

"Here, I can do that," Tom offered.

"Hey!" I said in protest, holding it away. "A girl's iPod is a personal thing. Ask to read my diary next, why don't you?"

Tom laughed. Oh, that laugh. I had always loved that laugh, stupid man. "Well, I'd rather you didn't crash us. And do you keep a dairy?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"You'll never find out," I muttered. I found my playlist quickly and hit play. Eighties and nineties mix, safe enough. I had no idea what his more recent tastes were. INXS's What You Need started to play, but not too loudly, so we could chat politely. It didn't stop us, however, from playfully imitating Michael Hutchence's signature grunts that punctuated the song. 

The soda fountain, as it was properly called, was not terribly busy. People were celebrating the new year in higher style than a burger, fries and milkshake, but Tom seemed to like the place the instant we walked in. 

"If it wasn't for the paraphernalia hanging everywhere I'd think we'd stepped back into the nineteen fifties," he joked, looking around at the modern Christmas decorations that favored The Beatles, Elvis, and Hello Kitty. "And I think we're overdressed."

"You're overdressed," I stressed, taking in that dark suit and the silvery tie. I loved that tie. Plus it was something to look at whenever staring into his face got to be too much. In the car it had been easier, just his voice and his good humor, but now that I had to look at him...

Damn.

"You look lovely," Tom said, his hand lightly touching the back of my arm as he guided me toward an empty table. And the goosebumps broke out en masse the second he did -- thankfully he pulled his hand away to let me sit.

I couldn't believe the level of attraction I was experiencing. My heart rate would speed up every time he smiled or chuckled or even spoke. Mostly because he kept waving those hands everywhere, which were obviously well manicured in the style of a person who was used to having his body watched. I kept trying to remind myself that this was Tom. I knew him when. I knew him when he was still a little awkward, still naive, even though he'd been cute and charming as hell even then. But now it was as if someone had turned a light on inside him and it was a floodlight, illuminating everything. 

So of course, this made me self-conscious as hell. 

I sat -- more like perched on my seat. My knees and ankles pressed up and together. My feet bounced on the balls of my toes. My elbows on the table, fingers tightly wound and pressed against one of my cheeks. I smiled and nodded at all the things he said, but it felt like all the maturity gained from all these passing years was slipping away. I was eighteen again and feeling like I had to impress him.

He'd already kissed me. And we were out on a date. These had to be positive signs, didn't they?

But somehow, knowing that he liked me made it worse, so much worse. 

For some God-awful reason, Katherine's words kept running through my head --

//"I told you if you lost twenty pounds you wouldn't be able to keep the guys off you."//

Why was that bothering me so much? I hadn't lost weight to be attractive -- I never though of myself that way. But it had improved my appearance considerably, and I had turned down more than one date. Fifty pounds (not twenty) had given me more definition of shape. But I felt like all breast and ass half the time. And men did not fail to notice it. Even if I was still hefty, considerably so, if there was one thing these last years had taught me, is that men liked variety. And big breasts were always going to get attention.

So when it came time to order, I was hesitant.

"I thought you said this place had great shakes," Tom said when I didn't order one.

"Um, it does, but it's late--"

"It's New Years," Tom insisted. "Come on, what flavor?"

"Pumpkin," I said. And it didn't help that my favorite burger came with tater tots ON it, held together with melted cheese, and fries on the side. Plus bacon. It was a greasy piece of heaven.

"You have phosphates?" Tom asked, seeing them on the menu. 

"Cherry and Strawberry," the server replied.

"Which one is better?" Tom asked me.

"I like cherry," I said.

"Two cherries, then," Tom ordered.

I frowned. "I already got a shake," I protested.

"So did I, but that hardly counts as liquid, more like dessert--"

"I thought you Brits called it pudding," I teased.

"That comes after the meal," he replied with a wink. Then he frowned, his head shifting to one side rather quickly. "Is something wrong?"

I knew I was starting to blush. "What? Why do you ask?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, I just remember you being a big foodie."

I shifted uncomfortably. "I was also much fatter. Things change."

Tom shrugged. "Never bothered me. You were always so good at knowing what to order. I used to wait for you to order first and then just get whatever you did. I remember you even teased me about it."

"I just thought you were unoriginal," I replied, but I did remember that. Very clearly.

"I learned after a few tries of never enjoying what I got to just copy you. I'd never spent as much time in America at once before." He also leaned on his elbows, arms crossed on the table.

"Was it so different from British cuisine?"

"We don't have nearly as big a spice pallet, that much is true, but we've gotten better." Then, he reached out and put one warm, long-fingered hand on top of mine. I watched it move as if in slow motion, and immediately stiffened as I felt the gentle pressure. "But small talk aside, tell me -- how have you been? I mean, it's been a long time, we need to catch up."

I raised an eyebrow. "Well, I certainly know how you've been," I teased, but even though he smiled, I distinctly noticed how the skin around his eyes tightened.

"Oh, that," he said dismissively.

I giggled. "Yes, that. You know how discombobulating it is to hear your friends giggle like teenagers over Tom Hiddleston? But I've been quiet, I haven't bragged that I knew you when."

Tom smiled, and thankfully, removed his hand. I fought down the urge to rub the skin he'd touched. The tingle lingered, distracting my thoughts.

We talked for a few minutes about my job as a medical technolgist, which I was fortunate enough to like, and how Monica and Katherine were practically the only people I kept in touch with after that summer, and how I only really saw Monica a few times a year, but Katherine and I were a bit more regular. Before I could grill him at all about his life, the food arrived.

Not wanting to make a mess, I used a knife and fork to cut into my burger.

"I thought I was the British one," he teased, nudging his chin toward my hands.

"What, is this a British thing to do?"

"It's a proper thing to do."

"Well, it's messy, I don't want to make a mess," I said, and realized my tone sounded exactly like it would have if I was talking to the Tom I'd known when he was eighteen. Chastising, and a big nagging. I cleared my throat, and resumed, much more sweetly, "Does it bother you?"

He shrugged. Then he picked up his burger and shoved it into his mouth. He had a considerable mouth -- thin lips, but the cavern they led into practically split his face in half. 

The cheeky look he gave me, his eyes sparkling, convinced me. So I picked up the burger and did likewise.

God it was a good burger. My eyes fluttered closed a bit with pleasure.

I was always a fast eater -- it was a bad habit. I sipped at the milkshake and drowned the cherry phosphate to wash down the burger. It was gone pretty quick, considering how much Tom kept me talking. My hand was constantly going over my mouth so as not to talk with my chewed food showing.

Tom...Tom was more charming than I'd ever known him. When we had hung out before, it was always friendly, casual. But the flirting had always been something I was unsure of. This time, I had no doubt. Tom's listening face, as it was referred to by his fandom, was in full force. He asked questions, showed interest, made comments that were more compliments than anything else. 

I realized he kept putting the focus on me. Whenever it was about him, it was about family, or Shakespeare, but he surreptitiously kept away from any name dropping, referring to his movie career only in terms of things he'd had to learn, like horse riding or playing the guitar. So I made the move into his career by staying close to a previous subject -- Shakespeare.

"Is it true that they're doing a second season of Hollow Crown?" I asked. 

"Yes, Ben is playing Henry the sixth," Tom said. 

"British seasons are so weird," I commented. "At least compared to American ones. I mean, four episodes, or three in the case of Sherlock -- that's pathetic for a season."

"Well, it does give time for other things," Tom pointed out. "Ben's done pretty well for himself outside of Sherlock, but still manages. And Doctor Who is a bit more regular."

"Yes, that's true. I also like Ripper Street. Your fellow countryman Matthew MacFadyen is quite good."

Tom chuckled. "Got a thing for Brits, then?" he teased.

"Ever since I was eighteen," I said, and then didn't quite believe what came out of my mouth. Seeing his eyes sparkle, I felt my heartbeat accelerate so I altered the line of conversation. "But you were really good in the Henriad. It was great that they let you play both parts."

Tom's eyebrows went up with his pleased smile. He had spread his knees and his elbows rested on them, his fingers toying with each other. "It was an honor," he said, a bit shortly.

"Planning to do more Shakespeare?" I asked. "I mean, I know you did Coriolanus last year--"

"Did you see it?" he asked.

I nodded. "The University of California in Irvine was showing it. The Barclay. They do all kinds of stuff like that. So I got tickets for a rebroadcast. You were...pretty damn scary, actually."

He laughed a bit more openly. "Really?"

"Well, you practically yelled all the way through it," I commented. "You were very intense. Don't get me wrong, it was good. Very far removed from who you actually are."

"I had to prime myself pretty hard in the beginning," he said. "After a while it was easier to get into the space. And then I was sick during some of it--"

"During the broadcast, I could tell, you were throaty. I have to admit, though, I've never read the play. I don't do well with reading Shakespeare, although I do love to see it performed. Ever since that summer I saw a college production of Midsummer Night's Dream, I've realized how much better it is acted out than read."

"Well, it's supposed to be performed," Tom pointed out. "Although I'm sure you're intelligent enough to understand it, it takes a particular mentality to be able to interpret some things." Then he launched into talking about the old Shakespeare volume they'd been allowed to touch, and how big of a deal that was. He went on about it easily for fifteen minutes, but I was fascinated. I'd always loved museums, looking at relics from the past, and the fact that he'd been allowed to touch it was amazing.

My shake was almost done. I was sipping it very slowly, as was he -- chocolate for him, very traditional. The uneasy feeling in my stomach was still at war with the tingle of being with him. 

It was all so very new. I really had never dated anyone I liked this much. Tom talked about feelings coming back...and mine had, too. So why was it difficult? Why was it so difficult to just go with it?

"I was actually kind of sad when the run was over," Tom said wistfully, draining the rest of his cherry phosphate. "He was very messed up, but he was great to play."

"The hanging upside down every night, you probably don't miss that," I pointed out.

He shook his head, laughing, and leaning forward. His hand was on mine again, fingers curling around the meat of my thumb to press his fingertips into my palm. "You haven't done anything else related to the theater?" he asked.

"No, not really, except watch it. I saw your costar Hadley in the Phantom 25th production, not live but on Netflix. I didn't know he could sing. I looked him up on youtube and he has an amazing voice. I think he's coming out with his own album. I didn't know he'd been in any films until I caught his tiny little cameo in Les Miserables with Hugh Jackman..." I shook my head. "I did not enjoy that one."

Tom kept his hand on mine, but his eyes turned more serious. "If you're a fan I could get you an autograph."

I smirked. "I don't really do autographs, or else I already would have asked for yours." My eyes traced over his shoulder to the three or four girl-women who had wandered in, and spotted Tom. "Like I think this gaggle is about to."

Tom gave a little jump and looked over his shoulder. The quartet shifted like reeds in breeze, their smiles hazy and dreamy -- and not a little bit drunk. They were all in high heels and short skirts with make-up that might have been immaculate at the beginning of the night but was obviously worn off by use. Probably coming home from clubbing, and had spotted Tom through the window. 

"You keep in touch with Hadley?" I ask, as Tom turns back to me with a bashful smile.

"I try to keep in touch with people I work with. Although I am a bit jealous that his voice is better than mine." Tom slid his hand off mine as he started to turn.

"Well, it doesn't matter, Hadley's married anyway," I comment as Tom's attention is now on the women, who have approaching him shaking like fourteen year olds at a One Direction concert. The phones were out, the hands were shaken, and Tom, being a hugger for at least as long as I'd known him, embraced them like old friends. He took selfies with them one by one, but I couldn't help but notice the daggers being shot at me whenever one of them would be waiting for her turn in the crook of his arm. 

Then came the really awful part. The girls wanted him to go with them, as if I didn't exist. I turned, my face involuntarily flushing, and tried not to glare out the window as they giggled and wiggled their breasts and backsides. They said something about helping him ring in the new year, having their own private party, they would never tell of course. 

I couldn't blame them. If I was void of moral or principle and had a body like any one of them, I'd invite Tom to an orgy, too. Of course, I didn't like sharing too much, so even that version of me would probably get a sour stomach without a lot of alcohol prompting me on.

"Ladies, please," Tom said, his tone taking in a strong, chastising air. He motioned to me. "I am clearly on a date." His smile returned, almost robotic. He was acting now, I could see the switch. "You've all probably had too much and are not in your right minds. I'll call a cab for you, yes?"

"We just live up the street," one of them, the blonde -- or at least the lighter blonde -- said. 

"Well, it's very, very late and you should probably head there, and let me get back to my date." That smile didn't waver. Not one bit. "Be safe, and enjoy the new year."

He motioned toward the door. The women gave him long, reluctant looks and replied with, "We love you, Tooooom," before filing out. Not a one of them missed giving me a hate-glare. I had to fight down the triumphant smirk.

"I'm so sorry," he said, sitting down again.

"Not your fault," I sighed. "They were wasted. It's New Years, after all. And you're a hot celebrity -- it was a golden opportunity for them, they had to try."

"Well, that isn't the kind of man I am," Tom said brusquely, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. "Unless there's anything else you'd like?" he asked, holding it up.

"Oh, no, please --" I reached for my purse. He gave me a deadpan look.

"A date, remember? That also isn't the kind of man I am. I don't do Dutch on my dates." He got up, and went to the cashier. He paid in cash, and I finished the last of my phosphate and munched down the last of the few fries.

He was tense when he came back to the table. I couldn't quite figure out why. Maybe he had wanted to go with them? No, that couldn't be it. But all four of them had been young and pretty and with a body I would never have, even if I lost another fifty pounds. 

Maybe that was it. Maybe Tom was regretting his choice.

My logical reasoning told me I was being emotional and silly. Tom had made it clear that he liked me, even then, when I was no catch. But I simply couldn't reconcile this Tom being that Tom, who would go for a fat girl simply because she had a good personality and large breasts. Quite frankly even that Tom didn't seem quite the type. 

So of course my brain started to create the scenario. Tom was out on his own, a bit bored. Obviously, if for his new year's eve choice he decided on Monica's party. But what big fish doesn't like being among the little fish? And then he spotted me, knew I had liked him from a long time ago. And of course I look much better than I did then, so why not attempt a hook up? He's not going to be here long anyway, what's the danger for him?

And again, logical reasoning told me this was ridiculous. If Tom had been only interested in a hook up, he could have gone after anyone at the party he wanted. Even Monica, who I had always suspected he had a secret crush on, although I never let myself think about it. He didn't even have to come to the party at all, he chose to. And he had been nothing but sincere and delightful.

He was also an actor. A good one. I'd seen it. 

I was jolted from my thoughts by the sensation of a very warm jacket being placed over my shoulders. We had gotten up, headed for the door when it was clear those girls were gone, and the extremely early morning air was borderline cold. As cold as it got in L.A. anyway. 

I caught the smell of him in the jacket. It was more of a sensation that ran through my olfactory system rather than an actual smell -- as if my sinuses could get a smell's equivalent of goose pimples. It made the spot above my nose and between my eyes buzz delightfully, and spread to behind my eyes and into my temples. I felt nearly giddy, but was knocked from the pleasantness from this state by his question.

"Are you all right? You've gone all quiet on me."

We stood facing each other. The street was well lit by the lights from street lamps and the soda fountain itself. It was quiet, only one car passing occasionally. We could stand here and talk and not bother anyone, not be overheard. 

"Nothing," I said. "I'm fine."

He looked at me. Really looked at me. He stepped closer, prompting me to have to tilt my head back a bit more to meet his eyes. I didn't want him to be privy to my paranoid delusions. But this was not what I was used to. I was not used to getting what I wanted. There had to be a catch, some reason why I was going to be disappointed. It was the way of things. It was my life.

"You and I have a history of not being clear with each other," he said. "I'll ask again. Please tell me what's wrong."

I shook my head. I was going to sound like an utter ass and drive him off. "I don't want to tell you because I'm afraid you'll...think less of me." I finish dejectedly.

He frowned. That listening face that had been turned up to maximum was slowly dissolving into one of disappointment. "Why would I think that?" he asked, but there was fear in his voice. Fear of finding out why.

I wanted to shrug off his jacket. It was too small for me anyway, it didn't do much more than warm my shoulders and back. I folded my arms under my breasts and nearly shrugged the thing off, but grabbed it with one hand so it wouldn't fall to the ground. "I just...all of this. I'm not used to thinks like this happening. I'm not used to having someone as handsome and successful as you pay attention to me. I mean, what happened between us years ago, it was how it should have been. It played out correctly. We went our separate ways. I didn't have any real business thinking you'd be interested in me and--"

"Stop," he said, his voice low but firm.

I stopped.

"Is this going to be a diatribe about how you're not good enough for me? Like I'm made of diamonds and unicorns and belong in some fantasy club with supermodels who don't look like real human women anyway because all that's just airbrushing?"

A sound came out of me that was somewhere between a grunt and a squeak. "Well, it's just...those girls--"

"Are just fans. And not the kind of people I want to associate with outside of said fandom. I told you, I'm not that kind of man."

"I won't ever look like that," I whispered.

"I hope not. I like how you look."

I blushed hard and my cheeks lit up like traffic lights. "Yeah, especially now that I've dropped fifty pounds."

Tom sighed. "I liked you then. But I can like you more, now. We're both more grown up, more mature, more in control of our lives. We're new people but we're not so different. Your little quirks haven't changed much at all. I don't think mine have. Besides," he added, his eyes getting tight again, "should I think you're only willing to give me another chance because I'm famous now? I mean, you were pretty mad, and you had a right to be. What makes me so different that I deserve another chance? Just the fame."

The thought that he might think I was only renewing interest because of his success mortified me. "I wouldn't--I hope you don't think that!"

"I won't. And in return you can give me a chance to be a real man and not some made up image that is entirely untouchable. And real men like real women, believe it or not."

I looked down at our feet. "I try to be real."

"One of the reasons I always liked you. And why I've been telling myself all night that you're not with me because I'm famous. You've always been straight up, that's who you are. And I like who you are," he stressed, stepping closer.

His fingers found my chin and lifted it up. I didn't want to give into this dream, it would hurt more when it vanished. My eyes stared to water a bit, mostly with fear, with terrible fear. 

"I hope," he said, very softly, "that you'll give me that chance we didn't get before. I know things are different. New situations, new careers. I come to L.A. a lot but I live in London. It won't be easy with me, but I know I have to live a life, not just a career. And I want to try with you. Seriously try." His thumb stroked my chin, making me woozy. "I know it's a lot to ask. Maybe you have better offers."

I chuckled scornfully.

"I don't have any offers, Tom," I said flatly.

"Good. I hate competition." He leaned very, very close, so close I could smell his breath. Chocolate and cherry. And mint, he must have popped a mint when I wasn't looking. "Can I kiss you? A real kiss, not that little New Years traditional peck."

Slowly, I nodded. 

His other hand slipped around the back of my neck and his fingers threaded into the base of my hair. I was going to die from heart palpitations, the anticipation was so heady and delicious. But I forced myself down, felt the concrete under my feet. I wanted to feel this. I wanted to know I had done it. I had taken this risk, just like I had before, fifteen or so years ago. Last time it had exploded in my face. If it exploded again, at least I'd be braced for it.

His mouth settled over mine, lips against lips. His bottom one between mine as he pulled on my full top lip. I felt the pressure, the suction, and very gently moved my mouth to respond to his. He smacked away for a breath, and then went in for the kill.

Tom...oh Tom. Tom around me, in my senses, everywhere. His hands under the jacket sliding up the sensitive flesh of my bare upper arms. The electricity passed over my skin wherever we touched, my stomach lighting brushing his waistcoast, my hands lightly resting on his chest, the sensation intensified by the warmth and smell of his jacket. I even felt one of my feet start to leave the ground.

When we parted, and I honestly don't know who withdrew first, I forgot to open my eyes for several moments. 

"This doesn't feel real," I murmured, finally looking at him. The intensity of his eyes was enough to make me terrified and elated in the same moment. 

"No, it doesn't," he whispered. "But I think that's a good sign."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned! More of Tom and Michelle coming! (yes I named her Michelle)


End file.
